


Worth the Wait

by Brate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam goes missing and is found injured, Dean fears the worst--yet another supernatural bad guy out to get them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth the Wait

_The last thing he heard before everything went black was the distinctive sound of car tires slipping on ice.  
_  
~*~*~*~

Dean tapped the remote against his leg and checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. What the hell was taking Sam so long? He had gone to get food nearly an hour before. Even with slow service, he should've been home by now. Dean would give him five more minutes.

Two minutes later, he was out the door. He gave one long look at the Impala before setting off on foot, not wanting to chance missing his brother. 

Lifting up his collar against the wind, Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked to the diner down the street. 

It didn't take long to get there, and an even shorter time to find out his brother had left with their food nearly half an hour before. Dean scowled as he let the diner's door close after him. So the question remained: where the hell could Sam be? Dean instantly dismissed Sam getting hijacked again, not with the protection tattoo in place. But that left hundreds of possibilities, not a whole lot of them particularly pleasant. 

He walked back to the motel at a slower pace, this time looking for smaller clues rather than a huge baby brother. Dean cursed the winter's early darkness for hampering his efforts. 

So intent on scouring the roadside, Dean didn't see the slippery spot until his legs went out from under him and he landed on his back with a jolt. "Son of a bitch!" He stayed there for a second before attempting to move, flexing first one side then the other before determining nothing was broken. 

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Dean placed a hand on the ground to push himself up. As he did, his gaze was caught by an odd shape sitting on top of a nearby mound of snow—a paper bag. He stood and hurried over. Dean picked up the bag; he could smell the greasy food within. The cold food within.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, looking around. Nothing.

The streetlights were few and far between, but they lit just enough for him to see a strange burrow through the snow, heading off into complete darkness. Dean dropped the sack and followed the trail, startling to a stop when he ran into something. He leaned down and touched the object. A boot. 

Cold hands brushed away snow as Dean moved up the body, scared that it would be Sam, terrified that it wouldn't—or that he would be too late. "Sammy?"

The streetlights were too far away to be of any use, and he cursed the fact he didn't think to bring a flashlight. He gently cupped Sam's face, flinching as his warm hands touched frozen flesh.

"Sam!" Dean called again, but got no response. 

Sam was still breathing, thank God, but he wasn't shivering, which meant hypothermia. Dean didn't know what else might be wrong with his brother, and wasn't going to take a chance. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. Dialing 911, he gave the dispatcher directions as best he could and hung up. "Sam…Sam, I'm here."

There was no reaction from Sam during the long—ever so long—wait for help. Dean's laid his coat over Sam, ineffectual, but the only thing he could do without moving and thereby endangering his brother. 

Finally, siren fading out and red lights flashing, an ambulance pulled up nearby. Dean yelled for help. The paramedics followed his voice, their flashlights bouncing in the darkness. The one in the lead kneeled next to Sam. Reluctantly, Dean moved out of the way.

"What happened?" she asked, starting to check Sam over. 

Dean shook his head. "I, uh, I'm not sure. I found him like this."

"You know him?"

"He's my brother."

"What's his name?"

"Sam."

She called, "Sam, can you hear me?"

The other paramedic arrived and knelt on the other side of Sam.

"No response," she told him. 

The male paramedic checked Sam's vitals and frowned. "We need to get him off the ground, get him warmed up."

They applied a cervical collar, then she asked, "What's your name?"

"Dean."

"I'm Patty and this is Mark. We're going to need your help."

"Anything."

"I'm going to hold Sam's neck straight while you and Mark lift him onto the gurney. Can you do that?"

Dean tried not to look offended. "Of course." If he had to, he'd carry his brother all the way to the hospital.

"One, two, three, lift."

As a unit, they picked up Sam and placed him on the gurney.

Dean grunted. Tall and well-muscled, Sam's dead weight was a load.

Sam groaned as they set him down.

"Sammy, you there?" Dean asked. But Sam was out again.

"Let's get him to the ambulance," Patty said.

Dean was impressed how quickly the two 'medics got Sam situated. Mark went up front to drive; Dean followed Patty into the back. "I'm coming with you," he said.

"Just stay out of the way while I tend to your brother," she agreed.

Dean nodded and grabbed the side of the vehicle when it took off, tires spinning.

Patty was bent over Sam with a pair of rounded shears. She started to slice through his clothing. "We need to warm him up before we tend to his wounds," she said. "Take his shoes off…carefully."

Dean gently pulled, taking off Sam's soaking socks, as well.

Once Sam was clad only in his boxers, Patty placed warming pads around his torso and neck. She kept her eye on his vitals as they raced to the hospital.

Dean tried not to, but he couldn't help cataloguing every mark on Sam. The multitude of scrapes and scratches, not to mention the odd angle of his left leg. By the time they reached the hospital, Sam had some color back, and no longer looked like death warmed over. Now he looked just plain bad.

A flurry of people arrived to steal Sam from the back of the ambulance, leaving Dean to follow in their wake, determined to keep an eye on Sam. He kept catching glimpses of his brother between all the people wearing scrubs.

"Excuse me, Dean…Dean!" 

Dean turned to face the 'medic who had gotten Sammy there alive. She handed him a plastic bag with Sam's clothes. "Good luck."

"Thanks." He turned back to find Sam had disappeared. Dean started to run through the doors of the treatment area, but the way was blocked by a very large and intimidating nurse.

"You're with that young man who was just brought in?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I'll need these filled out and his insurance card." The nurse shoved a paper-laden clipboard at Dean, then returned to her position behind the counter. 

Dean stared at the pages blankly for a long moment until his mind connected. He sat down in one of the waiting room chairs, casting a miserable glace at the set of doors through which Sam had been taken.

Looking down at the first form, Dean stalled on the first question: name. He loosened his balled fist and opened the plastic bag he had been given. Rooting through it, he took out Sam's wallet. Inside, he found an insurance card and matching ID. He used it to fill out the paperwork. 

Walking up to the reception desk, Dean shoved the papers across. "There you go. Now I want to see my brother."

"If you'll have a seat, I'll try to find out something," she offered. 

"Not good enough." He marched through the swinging double doors, ignoring the startled sputter behind him.

Dean started his search by ripping back the first curtain…where he was promptly met by a scream.

He hand-waved an apology and moved on to the next curtain. Four more curtains and numerous agitated people later, Dean found what he was looking for. His breath caught and he stood, dazed, before moving forward.

Sam was alone in the cubicle, on a bed, covered by heating pads and blankets, and hooked up to a bunch of beeping machines. 

And pale, very pale.

"You're not supposed to be back here."

Startled, Dean swung around. A man in scrubs—Sam's doctor?—stood in the cubicle's opening.

"This is my brother," Dean said. 

"Nevertheless—" 

Dean crossed his arms. "I'm staying."

The doctor looked around nervously, probably deciding whether to make a scene and call security, then stepped inside and slid the curtain shut. "All right, you can stay. Just don't get in the way. I'm Dr. Marciniak, I'll be Sam's physician during his stay here."

"I'm Dean." He stepped away from the bed, moving to stand next to the curtain. "Will he be all right?"

"He's holding his own."

"What does that mean?" Dean demanded, forgetting his unspoken vow to be silent and cooperative—at least until Sam was safe and could be moved.

"It means he was hit by a car, then half-froze. Obviously, he won't be dancing anytime soon."

Dean's mouth opened and closed a couple times before he was able to whisper, "A car?"

"The break in his leg is consistent with a vehicular impact," Marciniak reported. "The deep body bruising goes along with this. You didn't see it happen?"

"No, I found him by the side of the road," Dean said. "He was already down."

The doctor nodded. "I've alerted the police to a possible hit and run."

Dean wasn't worried about the cops right now. Besides, Sam was a victim—no need to run his prints. Maybe if he played nice he could find out who did this to his brother. And then take care of them.

As soon as Marciniak finished checking Sam and stepped to the foot of the bed, Dean took his place next to Sammy.

"How's he doing?"

"Better than when he arrived. His temperature is coming up nicely."

Dean sensed a…"But?"

"His pressure isn't as stable as we'd like."

"Which means?"

Marciniak looked up from his chart. "It means we have to watch for internal bleeding."

Dean's chest clenched.

"It's a good thing you got him here when you did."

If Dean had previously questioned his decision to call 911, he wasn't any longer. "When will you know for sure?"

"The closer he gets to a normal temp." Dr. Marciniak apparently realized he was speaking to his patient's loved one, because he hurried to reassure, "We are monitoring him closely and any change will be investigated."

The doctor left. Dean used a leg to scoot a chair closer and fell into it, sliding an arm onto the bed to lie next to Sam's. What the hell was wrong with them that even cars were against them?

Sam grunted and shifted. 

Dean straightened. "Sam?"

Sam wrinkled his nose, but didn't otherwise react.

Settling back into the chair, Dean waited.

Time passed slowly, the adrenaline flowing through Dean's body finally waned, and he dropped his head to his chest. The steady beeping soothed him into a light sleep.

~*~*~*~

Dean jerked awake at the shrill cry of an alarm. Instantly alert, he shot up to see what was wrong, but was pushed aside as Sam's cubicle was flooded with personnel.

"He's crashing!"

Dean heard the words, but refused to acknowledge what they meant. He peered over shoulders, around heads, smart enough to let them work.

His own heart beating double-time, images flashed before Dean's eyes: his brother still and lifeless, doctors jolting Sam with electricity, rushed movements with a sense of urgency.

Something blocked his view; Dean couldn't focus long enough to understand. It wasn't until they tried to push him from the stall that Dean reacted…violently. Finally words got through. "—throw you out of the hospital if I have to."

Dean instantly relented, and allowed himself to be escorted back to the waiting room.

Sitting down was an impossibility, so Dean quickly learned the perimeter of the waiting room, mentally establishing the dimensions as he paced. Countless laps later, Dr. Marciniak came out. Dean rushed forward.

"How is he?" he asked. "How's my brother?"

"We've got him stabilized," the doctor replied.

A wave of relief washed over Dean, quickly swallowed by fear-fueled anger. "What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"Sam went into cardiac arrest, but we've restarted his heart and he's doing well."

"Cardiac arrest?"

"This wasn't entirely unexpected, sir. It's not uncommon in hypothermics. That's one reason we watch them so closely."

"It was damn well a surprise to me," Dean growled.

"I do apologize," Marciniak said. I realize I should've warned you about this possibility—"

Dean cut him off. "Anything else you wanna _warn_ me about, Doc?" He'd probably feel guilty later, but right now the memory is too fresh, too raw.

Marciniak ducked his head, chagrinned. "His temperature is near normal, his blood flow is good, so we should be over the specific hypothermia problems. Now we need to concentrate on the injuries from the car's impact.

"The most pressing of his injuries are his broken leg and the head trauma. We used a portable x-ray machine since he couldn't be moved from his bed. Lucky for him, his skull is intact, and though his ribs are severely bruised, they aren't broken. The leg was realigned but not casted due to obvious circulation issues. Once he's fully stabilized, we'll cast it."

Dean clenched his jaw as he took in the list of injuries. There was something he needed to ask, but scared to know. Would Sammy still be Sammy? "And inside his head?" Dean asked. 

"I've scheduled a CT scan, so we have a better idea what we're dealing with."

"I want to see him," Dean said.

"I think it best if you let him rest," Marciniak argued.

"Well, I think it best if you let me see my goddamn brother." Dean knew he was pushing it, but after what had just happened he _needed_ to see Sam, make sure he was all right.

The doctor sighed, sliding his gaze over to the clock on the wall of the waiting room. "Give us forty-five minutes," he said, "so we can cast his leg and get him set up in a room, and I'll waive the normal visiting hours."

Chomping at the bit to see Sam, Dean nevertheless knew a good deal when he heard one. And he had to do what was best for Sam.

"I'll be right over there." Dean pointed in the corner. "I'll expect to see you in forty-five minutes." He made it sound like the threat it was.

Marciniak swallowed loudly, then puffed up as if recalling he had the power in this confrontation. "I'll be sure to keep you informed," he blustered, then scurried away.

~*~*~*~

It took Dean a moment to realize his view of the door to the treatment area had been blocked. He looked up. There was a young nurse in front of him; her nametag read _Margaret_.

"You can see your brother now, Mr. Townshend," she said.

Dean checked the clock—it had been forty-two minutes. He stood and followed Margaret through the waiting room, past the main entrance, to an elevator bank and up to the third floor.

When the doors opened, Margaret smiled and pointed straight ahead. "313," she said. "He's still asleep; the doctor will be in shortly."

Throwing a quick, "Thanks," over his shoulder, Dean hurried forward, already dismissing the cute nurse from his thoughts. He was glad to see Sam was no longer covered with heating pads or attached to a multitude of equipment. He hoped that meant his temperature was where it should be. He couldn't resist swiping a hand across Sam's forehead to check. At least the kid looked better. Had some color to him instead of the perpetual paleness.

Dean slid a chair next to the bed and sat down, crossing his ankles on the foot of the bed. "Dude, I gotta tell you…I'm getting pretty bored. I think it's time for you to wake up and start bitching."

Sam remained silent—stubborn as always.

Dean let his gaze drift around the room. It was a small, single occupancy, fairly common in the smaller regional hospitals. Unfortunately, it was something they'd had quite a bit of experience with. He ignored the TV up in the corner of the room, not bothering to look for a remote. At this hour, even if he were interested, there wouldn't be anything that he'd want to see.

"Dean?"

The hoarse whisper brought the front legs of Dean's chair thunking to the floor. "It's about time, kiddo. You done napping?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "'appen?"

"You don't remember what happened?" Dean translated.

Sam's blank expression was his answer.

"Near as we can figure, you went one on one with a car—the car won, by the way."

There was no sign of recollection on Sam's face.

Dean continued, "Then you decided to sleep off your injuries where it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a pool table."

Looking down the length of his body, Sam's frown grew more pronounced as his eyes rested on the leg cast. 

"I guess you'll have to hop-a-long, Cassidy."

At Sam's confused expression, Dean was quick to reassure. "It's all good, Sam; you'll be fine."

Sam's gaze drifted around, before landing on Dean again. "Wha' happened?"

A wave of cold flooded over Dean. His mouth opened and shut without sound. He wasn't sure how to respond, and was saved by the doctor's arrival.

"Mr. Townshend, so nice to see you awake. How are we feeling?" Dr. Marciniak asked in an overly cheerful manner that grated on Dean's nerves.

Sam stared at him as if he was speaking Swahili.

Dean said, in a low, calm voice—which he was pretty damn proud of—"He seems to be a little... confused."

"That's fairly normal after this type of injury." The doctor put down the chart he'd been checking and walked to Sam's side. Leaning over him, he flashed a light in his eyes. "We're just about ready for him in radiology." He put the penlight away and gave an ersatz smile. "We'll make sure everything is where it needs to be."

By the time the orderlies came to take him for the CT scan, Sam hadn't improved. He kept letting his gaze wander, half-bewildered. Then he would look almost uncomprehendingly at Dean, as if Dean could fix what was wrong. It was ramping Dean straight through frustration into rage. He knew Sam wouldn't understand that right now, so he forced his face to show a placidity he didn't feel. 

He just hoped the brain scan showed something, or nothing, whichever one would give him back his brother. His Sam.

Dean tried to go with them, but was told—none too gently, as if they'd been warned about him—that he was not allowed. Dean was not his father's son for nothing, and knew which battles to fight. Especially when these people were trying to help Sam.

So Dean waited. Again. By the time they brought Sam back almost an hour later, Dean was pacing the room like an expectant father. Sam, of course, was asleep again. As they shuffled him back onto the bed, it didn't even interrupt his gentle snores.

Dean rolled his eyes upward, alternately thanking the man upstairs and sharing his exasperation. Then he sighed and settled himself on the chair next to Sam. 

~*~*~*~

By the time Dr. Marciniak managed to come back with the results of the scan, Sam had been awake nearly half an hour and had asked, "What happened?" at least ten times. Dean had answered all of Sam's inquiries with the same calm, controlled tone, but he wasn't sure how much more he could take before he went crazy. 

"Mr. Townshend," the doctor remarked, shooting another "Mr. Townshend," toward Dean. He had an over-sized clipboard in his hands and was _hmm_ ing over it as he walked to the foot of the bed.

Sam absently watched him, apparently content, but it only took a minute or so before Dean lost what little patience he had left and snapped, "Well?"

Marciniak started as if he'd forgotten where he was, and tried to cover with a smooth smile. "Well, we found what we needed to know. The bad news is there is minor swelling in the pre-frontal lobe of Sam's brain; most likely, it's the cause of his slight memory loss and confusion."

Dean was glad he'd remained seated because he wasn't sure if his legs would've held him upright. "And the good news?" he croaked, hoping there was good news.

"It should go down naturally, which is the best thing for it," Marciniak said. "But, of course, we're watching it very carefully, and looking for any signs of growth or interfering with higher brain functions. If that happens, we'll have to go in and relieve the pressure manually."

"Manually?" Dean said dully. "You mean brain surgery."

"Yes, Mr. Townshend. You can imagine we'd like to avoid this if possible." Marciniak, perhaps realizing he had been a bit blunt, backpedaled. "It sounds like a harsh prognosis, but it's actually not that bad. Your brother is incredibly healthy overall, which helps in the healing process, and we were able to deal with his hypothermia and injuries promptly."

Dean looked over at Sam who had the same damn confused frown on his face, as if he was trying to interpret the information but his brain wouldn't allow it. Dean couldn't stand to see his brother looking so…empty. "So how do we do this?"

"We'll continue to carefully monitor Sam, and I have him scheduled for another CT scan in twelve hours. We'll find out whether or not the swelling has gone down, and then see if any further treatments are necessary."

Dean didn't bother saying anything as the doctor left. He let his eyes automatically drift to his brother, who was watching the door where the doctor had gone. 

"Sammy?"

Sam's eyes drifted over to his, softening for a moment, raising Dean's hopes, before being laced once more with confusion. Dean said it along with Sam:

"What happened?"

~*~*~*~

"Excuse me."

Dean was startled awake by the hand on his shoulder. His eyes automatically snapped to Sam—still sleeping, the bastard—before tracking to the person who had woken him: Nurse Nancy. 

"The police would like to talk to you, Mr. Townshend."

"I told you, it's Dean." He tried to give an accompanying smile, not sure if he pulled it off. Dean rolled his neck, trying to work out a kink. He looked again at the figure lying on the bed, sending the mental refrain _Sam's the victim, Sam's the victim, Sam's the victim_ running through his head. He steeled himself to greet the fuzz.

Two uniformed officers were standing next to the nurses' desk. Dean had to fight against his instincts telling him to take off the other way. Instead, he lifted his chin and strode up to them.

Seeing his approach, the officers straightened. "Mr. Townshend? I'm Officer Lee; this is my partner Officer Ramirez."

Giving a curt nod, Dean said, "Look, my brother's sleeping and he doesn't remember anything anyway, so he won't be any help—" 

"No, sir," Officer Lee said. "We just wanted to let you know we have the driver in custody."

"What?" Dean stopped. "Who did it?"

"Sir, please let us handle this," Ramirez interrupted.

"Handle it?" Dean asked. "My brother is lying on a bed in that hospital room—he almost _died_ , and I want to know who's responsible." Apparently, he had to let go of the thought of Sam being stalked by an evil car or run down by a demon-infused driver.

While Officer Sheppard had been talking, Dean noticed a man creeping closer, listening to their conversation. _Even a hospital has its version of rubberneckers_ , he thought caustically. At Dean's demand, the man stepped forward, into their space. With a nod, the officers moved back. 

Dean shot a confused glance between them. 

The man cleared his throat. "Mr. Townshend, my name is Rollie Maxwell. I'm sorry to say it was my daughter that ran your brother down."

"What?" Dean damn near had whiplash from the abrupt change in the conversation. 

"I'll not ask for forgiveness for me or mine," Maxwell continued, "or for you to accept my apology. But I had to meet you and tell you how sorry I am this happened. I've already contacted my insurance company—they're going to pay for any help your brother needs. And if there's anything else my family can do for yours, just ask." By the end, his voice wavered. 

Dean wanted to hate this guy, wanted to hate his daughter who almost took Sam from him, but he could see the anguish in the man's eyes. Could tell this accident had more than one victim. Depending on what the courts decided, this man might lose his daughter all the same.

Maxwell took a single, strangled breath, repeated, "I'm sorry" to Dean, nodded his thanks to the policemen, and walked away.

The officers watched him go. "He's really broken up about what happened," Officer Ramirez said.

"What _did_ happen?" Dean asked, finally finding his voice.

Officer Lee said, "Apparently, his sixteen-year-old borrowed the car without permission to go to a friend's house. On the way home she hit a slick patch, skidded, and impacted with your brother. The kid panicked and ran."

"Someone saw the car speeding through town and recognized it," Ramirez took over. "As soon as we showed up at her house, she broke down and confessed."

"Between the confession and the physical evidence, there should be no need for your brother to testify," Lee finished.

"All right." Dean nodded. "Okay. Um, thank you."

On one hand, Dean was relieved it was taken care of, but the other side of him was full of rage without an outlet to release it. He swallowed his anger, quietly thanked the cops, and headed back to Sam—his solid ground. 

He slumped in the chair next to his brother's bed, and put his head in his hands. "Sam, you gotta wake the fuck up because I'm losing it here."

~*~*~*~

They dropped a sleeping Sam off after his second CT scan.

Dean couldn't recall the first magazine he'd read at all, and was halfway through the second before he realized it was _Cosmo_. He started to toss it aside, then shrugged. Might be useful to read it for the inside information—not that he needed the help, of course. Besides, he half-wanted to get busted by Sam. Would at least mean the kid was awake and aware. 

He had asked if Sam should be sleeping so much, but Marciniak waved away his concern. "That's how the body heals fastest," the doctor had said. As if Dean didn't already know that after twenty-odd years of fighting ghosts, monsters, and demons, and the various wounds that entailed. Even though, it seemed like Sam was sleeping an awful lot.

A few more pages and Dean threw the magazine down. Standing, he stretched his arms over his head. Sam was still asleep, so Dean took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. He finished, washed his hands, and hunched over the sink, hands gripping the sides so hard his fingers turned white. He forced himself to take several deep breaths, refusing to look in the mirror. Couldn't face himself at the moment. If he saw how tenuous his walls were, they might crumble completely. 

Dean cupped his hands, and splashed cold water on his face. He dried off and returned to the main room just in time to see Marciniak leaving. Dean hurried to catch up with him in the hall. "Doc."

"Mr. Townshend. I thought you'd gone down for some food, perhaps."

Dean shook his head. No time—no need—for explanations. "What'd the scan say?" he asked, biting his lip.

"I'm pleased to report the swelling has gone down considerably; it looks like your brother won't require surgery, after all," the doctor said. 

Feeling his legs tremble, Dean leaned against a wall.

Marciniak continued, "I'm cautiously optimistic that Sam will make a complete recovery. Of course, we'll have to see how lucid he is when he wakes up."

Despite himself, Dean broke into a wide smile. "That's great news, Doc. Thanks."

"You're very welcome." Marciniak nodded, shook Dean's outstretched hand, and continued on his rounds. 

_Cautiously optimistic_. That's what he said. 

Going back to the room, Dean stopped just inside the door, watching his brother. Cautiously optimistic was not a guarantee.

But it gave him hope.

~*~*~*~

Sam stirred, mumbling, "What happened?"

Dean had been through this routine so many times he didn't bother looking up, just answered by rote, "You went for dinner, got hit by a car, and took a nap in the snow."

"Yeah, I know that, dude."

Dean jerked his head up. Saw actual life and comprehension in Sam's eyes.

"I mean what happened to you—you look like shit."

Dean just stared in pleased shock. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"You're you."

"Um, who else would I be?"

"Oh my God, I need to—" Dean vigorously jabbed the call button. It was as if he needed proof he wasn't dreaming this, that Sam was actually talking to him—coherently. 

Within seconds they were overcome by medical personnel, all of them conversing with Sam, solidifying that it wasn't Dean's imagination, his _wanting_. Sam really was awake and _there_.

The flurry vanished soon enough, and the brothers were left alone.

Sam made a visible effort to look Dean up and down. "No offense, but the only thing worse than how you look is how you smell," he said. "Why don't you go back to the motel, disinfect, and I'll see you in eight or ten hours."

Sam just smiled over Dean's protest. His eyes were already starting to close. "Get the fuck outta my room, man. You're stinkin' up the joint." 

Dean let loose a loud laugh—something unclenching inside of him. Sam was okay. Really okay. And he knew Sam was right, but Dean didn't want to leave. What he wanted to do was yell or scream or _anything_ , just to get rid of the insane energy he had bouncing inside of him. But looking down at his grungy, two-day-old clothes, he knew his brother was right. Even after making this admission, he was hesitant to leave Sam alone. Now that he had his brother back, he didn't want to let him go again. He cornered Nancy, pressed his cell number at her, and made her promise to call him if Sam woke up or moved or anything. She assured him she would watch over Sam, then she spun him around and shoved him toward the elevators. 

_Pushy nurses_. Dean stumbled but didn't fall, managing to keep his dignity until the elevator doors closed. There he collapsed against the wall, adrenaline rush ebbing and reserves spent.

Outside, Dean looked for the Impala, getting anxious when he didn't spot it, before he realized it was parked back at the motel. He dropped his head with a sigh, and went back inside for the number to a taxi service. After a quick pick-up, and he was on his way. 

At the motel, he was half-surprised to see their belongings where they'd left them. He must've given the clerk a card with a large enough limit, so they charged the additional days in their absence. Dean hoped they checked for a body, considering, although he didn't like the idea of anyone going through his stuff. 

He thought about switching motels to one closer to the hospital for all of two seconds before reality crashed in and he accepted he scarcely had the energy to walk across the room, let alone collect their things and move. 

Dean barely made it out of the shower before collapsing on a bed, towel wrapped around his waist, and was out before he could blink.

~*~*~*~

Two days awake and stuck in a hospital bed meant a bored and restless Sam. Dean did the best he could to entertain his brother, but he wanted to get back on the road as much as Sam.

"Dude, you better start paying attention or I'm gonna double-skunk your ass," Dean said, pegging out his hand. He didn't like how easily Sam was distracted or how he tended to zone out. It made him uneasy, but Marciniak said it would happen less and less as Sam healed.

Sam growled at Dean over the cribbage board. "I think it's poor form to take advantage of a guy with a head injury."

Dean just smirked. "Oh, please. The doc said your brain's good as new. Or as good as it ever was, anyway." His mouth widened into a full smile when Sam flipped him off.

"'Least you could've brought me real food," Sam whined. "I never did get to eat what I bought that night."

Wagging a finger, Dean announced, "That's your punishment for getting hit by a car."

"I was picking up food for you!" Sam defended.

"No excuses." Dean gestured at the cards he'd just dealt. "Now give me my crib, bitch."

Sam made a face, but handed over two cards. "You know what my clean bill of health means, don't you?" he asked.

"Yeah, come morning I'm springing you from this place and we're getting the hell away from this town." Dean didn't stop the wide grin from spreading across his face. But there was one thing bothering him.

"You never asked who hit you," he said, trying for offhanded. 

Sam shrugged. "You didn't say anything, so I figured it was taken care of."

Flashing back to the father's tearful apology, Dean knew he would be hearing its echoes for a long time. Sam didn't need to know about that—Dean would carry that burden for him. "Yeah, Sammy, it's all good."

He had his brother back and that was enough.


End file.
